


give me my last rites, i'm converted

by loserladder



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Blood, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-30
Updated: 2014-07-30
Packaged: 2018-02-11 01:25:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2047965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loserladder/pseuds/loserladder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a glow in the darkness and a voice breaks the silence.</p>
<p>“A bond, forged in blood, in ink, in the unseen, darkest parts of a human’s existence, can only be strengthened through blood, can it not, my Lord?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	give me my last rites, i'm converted

**Author's Note:**

> i am decidedly not sorry. all mistakes are mine. title from "shiny bruise" by the damnwells which is actually a pretty good song for this ship because i am sacrilegious ex-catholic trash

There is a glow in the darkness and a voice breaks the silence.

“A bond, forged in blood, in ink, in the unseen, darkest parts of a human’s existence, can only be strengthened through blood, can it not, my Lord?”

+++++

It’s a rainy Tuesday, and Ciel is flipping through papers. They seem to be never-ending, this constant flow of paperwork that will not even be finished by the time of his natural death. _As if natural death were an option_ , Ciel mentally corrects, smirking to himself. Honestly, he wishes his younger self had had the vision to demand a demon’s assistance in _this_ in exchange for his soul; surely he would have outsmarted the devil in that case, old age or boredom claiming him before the dark being constantly beside him could.

The rain taps against the window pane of the office as if it is trying to demand his attention, and he thinks he can hear Mey-Rin squawking from across the mansion. With a sigh, he runs his fingers through his hair and gives in for the moment, staring out the window. The landscape has changed and yet paradoxically stayed the same since he first returned. He no longer compares it to before the flames and the ash and the blood of a covenant he dreams of during his more comfortable nights.

“The young master seems distracted today,” voices a shadow, and Ciel does not jump, cannot remember the last time he didn't feel the presence of his constant companion at least vaguely.

“I always thought patience was a virtue,” Ciel replies, ignoring his butler’s comment, “and yet you continue to wait, day after day, year after year, not a single complaint rolling off your tongue.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a glowing smile to match crimson eyes, and he can almost imagine the forked tongue behind fanged teeth, moving in closer. “So eager for your demise that you question a demon’s single good trait?”

“Does it irritate you?” Ciel asks, turning his head to face the butler. There are no teeth, only a very human condescending smile. Ciel rests his chin on the palm of his hand. “Having to wait for this long?”

“There is longer still, my Lord,” he says, like a wish, a prayer, as if Ciel were the only true master, even including the skies above. There are shivers running down Ciel’s spine at the thought, and he wonders not for the first time how a tone of voice can be filled with contempt and utter devotion at once.

+++++

Ciel is captured as easily as ever. Fingers are digging into his flesh, the nails biting the delicate skin of his wrist, and Ciel laughs and laughs, stopping only when he nearly chokes on the blood in his mouth. The man before him knees him in the stomach, and Ciel can’t quite help the _oof_ that leaves his mouth. He doesn't laugh again, but he looks up, meeting the man’s eyes, fearful, despite the control he has over the situation. _He must realize his control is_ _fictitious_ , Ciel thinks, and isn't that fitting. He nearly starts laughing all over again at the irony of it all.

“Take that goddamn smile off your face, boy, before I make you,” he growls out, practically spitting the words. Ciel just moves his weight back, angling his body to look up at where the man is holding his wrists against the wall behind him.

“I believe you have your hands full, good sir,” he comments dryly, and the man’s anger is palpable, Ciel can taste it on the back of his tongue.

“Honestly, my Master,” a voice chides, and Ciel’s perverse joy shrivels up inside his chest. The man above him is whipping his head around, trying to find the source of the comment. Ciel takes this as his chance to break the illusion once and for all, using a knee with a considerable amount of force to slam down on the man’s toes. He drops Ciel’s wrists in surprise, a mistake, because now, Ciel has his hair and a fist in his gut, pulling himself up while simultaneously bringing his aggressor down.

An elbow to the back of his head, and the man sinks to his knees, the exact opposite of his position before, looking up at the earl with terrified eyes. Now that he is looking up, he can see the pentagram glowing deep and dark in Ciel’s eye, and it obviously shakes the man to the bone.

“Are you the Devil?” the man rasps, and Ciel smirks in response. Sebastian forms beside him, holding out his cane. Gripping it with bruised fingers, Ciel presses down on the clutch, hidden in the intricate design of the top. He pulls the sharp blade out, rolling his wrist.

“I do not believe in devils,” Ciel says after a moment, his smile large and haunting as he uses his grip on the man’s hair to pull his head back and slice the skin across his neck open.

The spray feels like the sprinkle of holy water during absolution, and Ciel closes his eyes, letting it sink into his skin, seep into his bones, taint whatever is left of his already-dyed crimson soul. He licks his lower lip, tasting the liquid on his tongue, and makes a face. The only truly pleasurable thing about this part of his job is the absolute control is gives him, a life in the hands of a self-made god. _Shadowed by a demon, of course_ , Ciel adds.

“Young Master, I truly wish you would be more careful with your clothes,” Sebastian says, a handkerchief in his hand, dabbing at Ciel’s face, around his eyes and mouth. “I can only put in so many orders in for your favorite trousers before your personal tailor becomes suspicious of the activities that lead to their inevitable destruction.”

“I have enough faith in your abilities to come up with a suitable excuse, should it come to that,” Ciel responds, letting his butler's fingers linger for too long on the bruised curve of his jaw and the high arch of his cheekbone.

“What praise, my Lord,” Sebastian says in a normal tone, but it sinks in through Ciel’s ears and weighs heavily into his gut.

+++++

Years pass and Ciel finds his body catching up to the age of his mind. Of course, he finds his perception on things changing as well; his mind is not completely stagnant, but he is very aware of his quick mental aging under circumstances and respects his younger self as a valid adult, despite his past stature. Other things change as well, but one thing that stays the same is his complete and total dependency on his butler.

“You hardly even need me to protect you, at present,” Sebastian comments, sounding almost perturbed by the idea.

Ciel cocks an eyebrow. “‘Protection’ and ‘assurance that all goods are in acceptable condition’ are very different things, Sebastian.”

“Does the young lord believe me so selfish?” Sebastian says, low and close, despite Ciel’s current seated position.

“Know your place,” Ciel snaps, but his heartbeat quickens.

As a child, he had sought comfort in the bastardized image of a man he could now hardly remember that the demon had clutched onto and formed into, making the curves of his face and the resting lines his own. A further taint on Ciel’s childhood, another memory burned to ash in the face of his choices and his deal, but one he had felt particularly fond of at the time. Now, his body seeks out comfort in a different form, the rush of hormones under his skin.

The knowledge that he is supposed to save this for a day when he and his cousin shall marry tingles in the back of his mind, a reminder of a guideline he has no desire to follow. As Sebastian does, he notices the shift is his master’s emotional and physical needs, quick to torment and toy with yet another weakness the earl has pinned down inside himself.

Soft table cloth beneath his fingertips and the uncomfortably straight back of his dining chair, yet all he can feel is the wisp of breath as Sebastian lightly chuckles and pulls away. He does not make a returning comment, maintaining the facade of a servant properly scolded. In truth, Sebastian probably can sense the tension in the earl’s body, his itching for a reason to strike out and land a mark resembling the ring now presiding on its master’s middle finger.

A push or a shove and Ciel would crack like fine porcelain.

+++++

Ciel wonders if it was always going to be this way, the pressure of Sebastian’s hips digging into his and the weight of his tongue in Ciel’s mouth. Maybe his butler made particularly sure that it would, just like this, his claws tracing red, welted lines down the insides of his master’s arms and the sharp thrusts till both are spent, aching and bruised and bloody. He thinks on past touches that had once made his skin itch with the contact evolving into the way his arms wrapped themselves around a deceivingly pale, warm inviting neck as his weight was supported by inhuman strength. 

He thinks most of all on if he's known the entire time what this would lead to, if he himself helped it along into the dark depths of his own bedroom, stained sheets and harsh noises. 

“A bond forged in blood can only be strengthened by the exchange of blood, can it not?” Ciel finds himself asking one night, before it all, Sebastian reaching out to him, pretending it was still necessary for him to dress and undress his master.

He does not pause in his work on undoing the buttons, but there is now a smile hiding in the corner of his lips. Ciel does his best not to stare too intently. “I cannot say I have ever had a master who would wish to test such a theory.”

“I am unlike your previous masters,” Ciel reminds him, his tone lacking arrogance and built in the statement of fact.

“That you are,” Sebastian agrees, slipping the last layer over Ciel’s shoulders and leaving him in trousers alone. As Sebastian’s hands sink to the button at his master’s waist, Ciel grabs his hand.

Moving it away from his body and replacing it with his own hand, he unbuttons the front of his trousers, shoving them down his hips. His breeches hardly conceal his reaction to the feeling of his butler so close, gloved fingers lightly sliding over his clothes.

“How exactly would you strengthen our bond, my Master?” Sebastian asks, his voice guttural and eyes glowing an unnatural, satanic red.

“With blood,” Ciel responds before leaning in and biting his butler’s lower lip hard.

+++++

The wedding is on a Thursday, a day Ciel believes is hidden from God and the rest of Kingdom Come. Elizabeth is absolutely radiant, eyes shining bright with tears as she finally reaches her groom at the altar. She turns to the crowd, seeks out her cousin’s half-hidden gaze, and gives him a warm smile, the smile of a love lost and regained.

Despite it being many hours, to Ciel, the service seems remarkably short. He stands with the other guests, watching the happy couple leave. More loving smiles are exchanged, and Ciel is glad that at least some people are manufactured for affection towards others of their kind. With the carriage drawn away, Ciel is left to walk away from the crowd, through the church and towards the cemetery. He is standing before a grave, one not unlike his parents' own, and yet these rotting corpses in the ground are complete strangers.

“She might rest in a honorable tomb like this one day,” Sebastian says from his right, and Ciel finds himself smiling.

“In time,” Ciel comments idly. “Her prince of a husband may have something even more spectacular built for her decaying flesh.”

“You will have no such thing,” Sebastian breathes against the back of his once-master’s neck. Ciel leans his head to the side, letting the demon’s mouth access the delicate skin there and feeling the exhale of a long-held breath that sends tingles down his spine.

“I thought patience was a demon’s one virtue?” Ciel says, not making a sound as his demon bites into his neck with sharp teeth. _Not_ my _demon,_ the _demon_ , he reminds himself.

Sebastian breathes fire-hot against the back of Ciel’s neck, and they are no longer in the cemetery, the earl letting his eyes close as clawed hands grip his body and move it to their liking. “I’m finding my patience is running a bit thin,” Sebastian concedes.

“Honestly, I never expected you to hold out this long,” Ciel manages to choke out, swallowing the noises of pain and arousal that want to leave his mouth. “Don’t tell me a vice held by your kind is sentimentality?"

The sharpness of his butler’s fangs increase, slicing his skin as easily as any blade. There are black shadows surrounding Ciel’s frame, wrapping around him and sinking into him, leaving him exposed and violated and laughing, laughing at the cruelty of it all, with the last prayer to leave his demon, _yes,_ his, _always his_ , demon’s lips as a soft, “my Lord,” and the absence of noise.


End file.
